"
Then for the first time she manifested some interest in my mood. She put
her head to one side and scanned my face narrowly.
"What's the matter, Simon?"
"I've absorbed too much life the last few days," said I, "and now I've
got indigestion."
"I'm sorry, dear old boy, whatever it is," she said affectionately.
"Come round and dine at 7.30, and I promise not to worry you."
What could I do? I accepted. The alternative to procuring Agatha an
evening's amusement was pacing up and down my bird-cage and beating my
wings (figuratively) and perhaps my head (literally) against the bars.
"It's awfully sweet of you," said Agatha. "Now I'll rush home and
dress."
I accompanied her down the lift to the front door, and attended her to
her carriage.
"I'll do you a good turn some day, dear," she said as she drove off.
I rather flatter myself that Agatha had no reason to complain of my
dulness at dinner. In my converse with her I was faced by various
alternatives. I might lay bare my heart, tell her of my love for Lola
and my bewildered despair at her desertion; this I knew she would no
more understand than if I had proclaimed a mad passion for a young lady
who had waited on me at a tea-shop, or for a cassowary at the Zoo;
even the best and most affectionate of sisters have their sympathetic
limitations.
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